


you are in my firing line

by Enigmatic



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 07:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1596419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enigmatic/pseuds/Enigmatic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To Isolde, Eamon is her saviour and her shackles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are in my firing line

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prozacpark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prozacpark/gifts).



> I've taken some liberties with the DA timeline, particularly with the timing of Isolde and Eamon's meeting and marriage.
> 
> Thank you so much to the mods for their awesomeness <3

With barely a swish of the bed’s curtains, Isolde slips out her bed and room.

She knows it is a hazard to leave the castle ( _her prison_ ). With the news of Emperor Florian’s renouncement of support for King Meghren, it won’t be long until her family is forced to leave this country — dead or alive. They’ve survived this long because of the sheer number of Orlesian troops that often made their way through Redcliffe, but now that the flow will cease, she knows better than to think the castle’s protection will last, especially not for a petty family of Orlesians.

She has been going stir crazy in her room for the past week after her parents received the news, and now she wants to experience the dangerous beauty of Lake Calenhad in closer proximity. It is a wondrous sight from her window, but she never dared to step foot on its shores. For all she knew, the ground and water was polluted by the taint of the Circle across the lake.

However, if she’s going to die, she might as well touch the pristine waters before she went.

She is about to slip past one of the more unguarded castle doors down to the lake when a hand grips her forearm and firmly yanks her to the side.

She tries to scream, but the sound is muffled by a hand closed around her mouth. Unthinkingly, she bites down hard into her assailant’s fleshy palm. She hears a grunt of pain and she struggles even more now, nails scratching at any available skin, because her attacker is a man and her mother has told her stories of what men did to young women and she is an Orlesian in a foreign land desperate to destroy every trace of her people and she refuses, absolutely _refuses_ to be treated in this way—

“My lady, my lady, please stop struggling — they’ll hear you!“

The man no longer whispers and is speaking lowly in her ear. “My lady, I am not here to hurt you.”

They are lies because she can hear it in his voice — he is Fereldan, and all Fereldans mean her harm.

“I’ll release you, but please do not make any noise because they’ll hear you and more will come.”

That causes her to pause, because it is true. She has a semblance of a chance against one man, but a dozen? She will be ripped to shreds like a mabari’s quarry.

Feeling her acquiescence, he sighs in relief and slowly turns her around to face him. He is… young. Not as young as she, but the faint scars on his cheek and neck make her rethink that assessment.

“Thank you, my lady,” he says and that— that makes her falter, because he says it so sincerely, his voice kind and soft for a Fereldan. She has servants and guards, but she can hear the way they spit out, “my lady,“ because it is not true, not for them. She is not their lady. But to him, it makes her sound like she is.

“Wh— who are you?” she starts, her voice stuttering and breaking because she is _afraid_ , and no more. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

He grins, somewhat roguishly. Isolde has the sudden urge to smack him across the face.

“Me? The question is why are _you_ out here in the middle of the night, my lady?” He loses some of his playfulness and his face looks rather stern. “It is not safe here for you.”

She wants to snap, “Tell me something I don’t already know,” but he is dreadfully earnest and she can’t bear to do it.

“As for who I am…” His hand hovers over her arm, and when she doesn’t move, he touches her ever so gently, fingers trailing down until he is holding her hand lightly. He bends down and kisses the top of her hand. She tries to suppress her shivers and fails. Clearly, there is a terrible chill in the air. He looks up at her, still bent forward and eyes sparkling.

“My name is Eamon, and it is a pleasure to finally meet you, my lady.”

Her heart stutters.

.

Eamon is different from the other Fereldans.

Isolde hardly sees him, but she is certain he’s busy with whatever is it he does in the castle. He is a hard worker; she knows because his hands are rough and calloused. She has a feeling he is a stableboy, but the few times she’s visited the stables under the guise of checking her horse’s welfare, she didn’t see a peek of his brown hair.

Often, it is he who finds her, and during the most opportune of times. When three of her guards begin to look menacing, Eamon is there to placate them and whisk her away. When her handmaiden accidentally trips and tears her dress in the middle of the courtyard, Eamon is there to shield her from any onlookers and lead her back to her quarters.

Later, she wonders how a stableboy knows his way through the castle so well, but she is distracted by his appearance at the crack of the dining hall doors, just before her father spits his dinner out. That night’s meal was overly salty.

Their interactions don’t last long, but she cherishes what little time he spends with her. He treats her differently, kindly and his smiles brighten her day.

After a while, she begins to look forward to the times when he will seek her out again. It is a blessed reprieve from her father’s increasing (and well justified) paranoia and for one moment, she can forget that she’s an Orlesian in Ferelden.

She tells him many things over the next few years, but she the one thing she keeps secret is the reason her family, as noble as they were, was sent to Redcliffe of all places. It is an unimportant fact.

Later on, when she sees him standing tall and regal in the main hall, confidently introducing himself to her father with his full name, she doesn’t tell him because her life depends on it.

.

When Eamon is restored as the rightful Arl of Redcliffe, he makes no secret as to who he intends to marry.

The news sends Redcliffe into a frenzy and she can practically feel the glares of her future family-in-law all the way from Denerim. But Isolde merely hides her smile in Eamon’s shoulder and thanks the Maker for his kind blessings.

She does not see her family off when they leave for Orlais. She does not know how they will fare when they return to their home country, whether they will even be able to survive in the country they were essentially exiled from — but it is no longer a concern of hers.  Isolde had already said her goodbyes the moment her stableboy Eamon became Eamon Guerrin, brother-in-law of King Maric Theirin.

Eamon and Redcliffe are her life now, and she intends to be married on the shored of Lake Calenhad, no longer bothered by the proximity of the castle to Ferelden’s Circle.

.

Fereldans are an odd bunch of folk, she thinks.

Orlesian nobility have the privilege of having the Maker smile upon them from birth — a privilege that she is always thankful for, as it was the Maker who brought Eamon to her and lifted her from family’s darkness.

Fereldans, on the other hand, select their nobility based on bizarre characteristics such as military ability, good looks and strength of character. The notion of fighting for one’s own lands is a terribly barbaric concept, but she thinks perhaps she is not that dissimilar — her battles just aren’t physical.

Eamon is as successful in wooing the villagers of Redcliffe as he did her, with his charm and smiles and kind promises. The ease at which he is accepted by the Bannorn gave her hope that one day, they might extend their trust to her as well. It was perhaps too high an expectation, as they never tried to shield how discontent they were with the Arl’s choice.

On the rare occasions the King and his court visits, their contempt for her is evident. Even Eamon’s warm presence in the room fails to protect her from the gossip and looks that circulated the crowd. A few of the nobles even go so far as to spit on the ground she walks on, angrily hissing, “Orlesian scum,” to her face.

The first time it happens, her eyes search for Eamon, only to see him across the room conversing with the Teryn of Highever. She lowers her gaze and walks away.

The second time it happens, she eyes them equally as contemptuously, but says nothing. Though she has no doubt about the love Eamon has for her, there have been numerous barriers to Eamon’s attempts to marry her and she is far from his wife. To the eyes of Ferelden, she is little more than Eamon’s fleeting fancy for now.

When it happens again, years later, she is the Arlessa of Redcliffe and she does not hesitate to slap the bann hard across the face. She articulates each word with precision as she reminds him exactly whose castle he is a guest to.

She is Orlesian, and if Fereldans are unlikely to forget it, then neither will she.

.

Seven months is a long time to have another being find life inside of you, and one month is too short a time to experience joy.

When Isolde first learnt her child has passed away in the night, she’s hardly surprised. The poor babe could not suck in precious breaths of air in his first few moments of life, and even after they cleared his lungs, he struggled with coughs and fevers.

Isolde did not trust that it is not magic at fault for her son’s condition to begin with, and Eamon had to beg her to allow him to bring in the Circle’s best spirit healer to help heal their son. She knows a great number of people willing to harm her for her marriage to Eamon, but she doesn’t understand why they punish her innocent child instead of herself.

(Lies. She knows perfectly well why her child was being harmed, but the knowledge just made her prayers more frequent as she begged the Maker to save her son’s life, as well as hers.)

She visited the Chantry so often in the weeks following her son’s birth that they set aside a bed for her to sleep in with the other sisters.

Sometimes, a few villagers would join her to pray for the health of the Arl’s son. She believed more of them came to the Chantry when it lacked her presence.

After a particularly vicious wave of coughs swept through her son, she finally conceded to Eamon’s requests, though the spirit healer did not have much good news for them either.

Soon, her son was gone and life moved on with more strained smiles.

.

It is years later the next time her belly swells.

This time, she visits the Chantry on almost every day of her pregnancy. Sometimes, Eamon joins her. Most of the time, he doesn’t.

She pretends not to notice the villagers whispering about the Arlessa’s barrenness, how the talk about her inability to conceive is often more frequent that talk of her managing the arling. Eamon does nothing to dispute the rumours.

After almost a day of labour, her child is born lifeless. She merely nods at the news and asks to be left alone to clean herself.

.

“Eamon, please!”

She keeps having to move to keep herself in his line of sight. Every time she catches his eye, he turns or simply shifts his gaze. If she knew the slope of her shoulder was that aesthetically pleasing, perhaps she would’ve put much less effort into choosing her dress this morning.

“In the name of the Maker, Eamon, it is not that difficult of a question! Just a yes or no will do.”

She doesn’t know how long they’ve been stuck in this mad dance for, but it feels like days. Her hair is almost out of her neat bun with the number of times she’s clenched her head in frustration. Eamon keeps saying that she’s overreacting, but she feels she’s far from it. It is one thing to treat a stableboy kindly; it is another entirely to bring him to Denerim a few days before the Landsmeet.

“Isolde, have some trust in my decisions please,” he says tiredly, again avoiding her question.

“I do,” she says beseechingly, her voice terribly high. _But did you betray my trust in you?_ she wants to ask.

She doesn’t, and instead says, “I always do, but you are treating Alistair like he is your—” She can’t bear to say the word.

She sees him clench his jaw and she can already feel her stomach sinking. She forces herself to unclench her fists and slowly exhales.

“Just tell me, Eamon,” she tries again. “Did you wander from our bed? Did you father a son with another woman? Did you leave me—“

“Enough, Isolde,” he finally says sharply. He meets her eyes, properly, for the first time in hours. His face is hard and cold (so _so_ unlike the Eamon she knows; the Eamon she _thought_ she knew) and she can feel her heart stutter painfully. “I will not stand for any more questions about my loyalty, which has always been unwavering. This conversation is over.”

She turns her back on him as he walks out of their room and refuses to acknowledge the blurriness of her vision.

.

When she sees Eamon at dinner, they do not speak of Alistair. In fact, they don’t speak at all, the tense silence broken only by the sound of chewing and tapping of cutlery against dishes.

The next day, she suggests to the stablemaster that perhaps Alistair should start sleeping with the rest of the stablehands, if he is to fair better under their tutelage. The stablemaster nods unquestioningly; apparently, he had been ready to bring the issue up himself to the Arl soon given Alistair’s age.

Isolde no longer sees a little redhead pass her in the halls when she’s on the way to the kitchens. She no longer holds her breath every time she walks on the castle’s grounds. She no longer hears the panicked shuffle of servants before she enters a room, nor does she catch the sight of small hands hiding under a table, barely sheltered by the skirts of the servants.

Isolde breathes a little more easily.

It doesn’t stop the rumours, but she finds it is impossible to stop people from talking as it is to stop them from drinking.

She does not speak to Eamon. She knows he will allow her a period of reprieve from proper interaction with him, and she intends to use it to the fullest. One day, he finally approaches her and instigates conversation himself.

They still do not speak of Alistair and she bites her tongue in Eamon’s presence, but at least they have this.

She goes to the stablemaster a while later and inquires about Alistair. She finds out Eamon has done nothing to move Alistair to better quarters.

She takes it as an admission of guilt.

.

She confronts him on the third month of her pregnancy.

“You must send him to the Chantry, Eamon.”

She sees him open his mouth, but she interrupts him before he can say anything.

“I have yielded to your requests; I have not asked again. But now that this is happening,“ she says, touching her belly gently, “I want him out of the castle.”

Eamon doesn’t argue further and she nods firmly.

She had expected as much.

.

Isolde finds it interesting that when Eamon finally has an heir of his own — a _legitimate_ heir — he isn’t able to bring him to the Landsmeet.

Connor was born healthy, but the red of his cheeks disguised a deeper problem in his body that manifested during travel. He would get sick easily, whether it was travel by carriage or boat. Eamon seemed disappointed, but there was hardly a thing he could do to change it. Isolde spends more time with Connor in the days Eamon was off in the Bannorn or Denerim, providing his much needed advice to the king and nobles. Even when he is at home, he would be absent — off to talk to the mayor, to the farmers, to everyone but his wife and son.

When he is away, Eamon would send for his brother to help her manage the arling. She doesn’t say anything, even though she is more than capable of supervising the arling in his absence.

And when he returns, her smile is as stark as the paint on her face and she kisses him on the cheek.


End file.
